


Longer Ways to Go

by mresundance



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Chance Meetings, Fingerfucking, First Meetings, M/M, Memories, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How, by accident, two travelers met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longer Ways to Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeejunkii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/gifts).



> All lies, of course. I know neither of these gentlemen.
> 
> For coffeejunkii, who likes James/Charles. I was trying to write something from Charles' POV; things obviously veered away from that. Oh well.

In those days you could still walk through London Heathrow unnoticed, a grace which is no longer common. At that point in your life you were nothing to the world but a pale, slender young man. Anonymous, even. This was before the malarial heat of Uganda, making your skin burn and conjuring nightmares of genocide years after. The softness of youth yet clung to you; other travelers often mistook you for being younger than you were. You believed your hair was a only mediocre shade of brown. Your Scottish accent was hardly unusual to anyone save Americans, who often seemed stunned by anything which came from outside of their country. The only truly striking thing about you was your eyes. Other travelers passing through Heathrow said your eyes made them recall the aquamarine sea surrounding the Hawaiian islands. Or of polar ice caps.

A little man with ash-white hair sat next to you while you waited for a flight. He looked frail as a baby bird, skin drooping from his bones. His whole body quavered as he told you that your eyes reminded him of eating shaved ice as a child, in Baltimore.

"Before the War," he said. The ice had been white, stained neon blue by the syrup, a hue which had glowed under the summer sun. "It was too sweet. But it balanced out the other things which weren't so sweet," he added, face dimming briefly.

You wondered what this meant before replying: "Sorry -- but are you saying you want to lick my eyeballs?"

The pause was a waitful one, but the little man's head titled back and his thin lips peeled away in a peal of laughter.

You have met many travelers who, like the little man, you still wonder about.

And you will never stop marveling over the miracle of your ginger.

The first day you met, waiting at Heathrow's Central Bus Station, the air had been stifling and cold while rain dripped from amber leaves. Your gaze fell upon a man, tall and square shouldered, all rough edges and angular grace with ginger hair. He leaned casually against a metal pillar; if the sun had been out, he could have been languishing. Instead he was chafing his hands and scowling as he smoked, white clouds streaming from his nostrils and the line of his mouth.

"Fuck this," he said when he noticed you watching. You laughed, the easy sound reverberating through the station.

"Just the cold then, or . . . ?"

"Everything," the ginger pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry." He extinguished his fag in an ashtray, then slid his hands into his pockets and straightened against the pillar. He was a bit wan and there were dark smudges of unrest beneath his green eyes. Even so, you felt his brightness, something which compelled you in ways that you still do not understand.

"Didn't mean to be rude," the ginger mumbled.

"Not at all," you said. And though this other man was tired -- exhausted even, you noted by the way his shoulders yet curved a little inward -- your gazed roamed over him. Your eyes finally rested upon his hair. You luxuriated there, noting even in the dull light stunning hues of copper and bronze.

You chuckled.

"What?" the ginger jutted his chin.

"I'm sorry -- it's just -- that you're Irish. And ginger. Isn't that sort of terribly cliché?"

The man blinked at you, expression frank.

"Yeah, well, you're Scottish and a cheeky bastard but I don't complain."

You laughed, shifting a few steps closer. You saw him looking, running his eyes up and down your body the way men do, and suddenly felt the ragged ends of your hair and the miskept scruff on your face and the pinky sized hole under your left jeans pocket. But then he was looking at your eyes, gaze lingering for just a little too long. Your smile was coy; his eyes dropped and he rubbed the back of his neck. This only made you like him more.

You talked for awhile; you missed one bus to find coffee together and then another was delayed. But time passed so easily with this man, the cadences of your voices rising and falling, point and counterpoint, like two guitars thrumming in harmony. You talked about God and faith and art and creation; about the craft of acting; about childhood pains and broken love affairs; about mistakes you'd made and what you hoped for. About where you had come from and where you were headed next.

"Why do I feel like I know you?" he growled at one point. Standing downwind of him, you caught the faint whiff of his aftershave and the scent both deeply excited and becalmed you.

"I know, right?" you said and then immediately regretted it because you sounded like some love-addled adolescent wanker. He looked at you, fondly, and it was like a caress.

He excused himself to the loo and you waited, pacing in fervent circles and debating whether or not to give him your name and mobile number. He returned and a few minutes later his bus lumbered into the station. As he shouldered a rucksack and prepared to board, you felt as though the colors and light were draining from the world.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," you said, holding out your hand.

"Yeah, you too." His grasp was firm and warm, just the right amount of pressure. You wondered if he was a good lover.

"James," you said. The ginger man's stern expression fractured and he smiled.

"Michael," he said, leaning in, just close enough, just long enough -- _yes_ \-- your fingertips brushing over the mouth of his right jacket pocket. He didn't notice; he staggered up into the bus and was gone.

* * *

An anxious week passed before he rang you. You thought he might have forgotten, or found you too forward, or any of a thousand possibilities. And you didn't recognize his Irish lilt over the phone at first, his voice disembodied from his physical presence.

"Is this James?"

"Yes. I am. Sorry, who is this?"

"You cheeky bastard," Michael said and recognition hit you low in the gut, a twinge of exhilaration and pleasure. You laughed.

"Oh, hello again," you said with genuine, even sensuous, warmth.

"You slid your number into my pocket -- you clever cheeky bastard," Michael continued.

"I didn't know if you'd ring," you admitted. "I'm glad you did though. Really glad," you repeated and felt like an idiot until you heard Michael's breath hitch on the other end.

"Are you in London then?" he asked, voice suddenly low and open, full of longing.

"Yes. I'm in London. Why?" you felt the blood beat in your face.

"Meet me?" he asked. You could tell he hoped he didn't sound desperate and _oh fuck_ \--

"Yes," you said. "Yes. I will. Yes."

It was simple as those five words. Your whole life as it had been, all those years of working and wandering. Of passing through airports and bus stations; of giving pieces of time and your life to anonymous strangers; of traveling alone, your destination not always fully known.

Your whole life as it would be in the future, too, became simple as those five words. The world would become less frightful, less ghastly and you would see yourself more, actually look at yourself and feel comfortable; you would like yourself more.

In five words you had finally discovered what was irrevocably _home_.

The second meeting ended in a hot rush, a wonderful pile of limbs and lips and Michael's fingers in you and moaning into his ear as you left the crimson indents of your fingernails on the back of his neck.

"Oh shit, sorry," you said after, running your fingers over the marks. "I hope this won't -- ruin anything --" you murmured, meaning that you hoped this wouldn't interfere with his work on set, though you didn't know what or if he was filming anything at the time.

"Collared shirts," he drawled smugly, reaching back to squeeze your thigh. "Collared shirts love," rolling over and burying his face in your throat. He lay there, breathing heavily and vibrating from your shared pleasures. You felt his eyelashes against your throat as you fell asleep in a daze.

* * *

You continued on, together. Seven years you continued on, through travel and long absences; through the gradual loss of your anonymity, until it faded into vague memory; and not long after, through the loss of his anonymity as well; across continents and oceans; through marriage and the relentless media. Your life together was like the ebb and flow of the tides, sure and steady, the both of you always moving and returning to another. Until one day you arrived on the same gold and blue shore. And though you were both acting, playing roles for the camera, Michael held you in his arms and you found a strange peace in that.

"James, how is it like working with your husband?" interviewers ask.

You pretend to find the question annoying and repetitive sometimes. Other times you answer in jest, claiming it nearly lead to your divorce, or that you and Michael only make love four times a year, if you're lucky.

Inside, however, you marvel. How, by accident, two travelers met and were joined.

* * *

 _Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life._

\-- Jack Kerouac


End file.
